


Weekend Rogue

by oshare_banchou



Series: I Make My Own Luck [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Humor, M/M, Saoirse Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oshare_banchou/pseuds/oshare_banchou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Better to be alive in anonymity than dead in notoriety, Hawke," Fenris likes to remind him.</p><p>Hawke fetches breakfast for two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend Rogue

     Saoirse Hawke is standing outside the door to Fenris’s mansion, juggling a couple bags from a Lowtown bakery as he fishes for his keys, rummaging one-handed in an inner pocket of his jerkin. With the bags balanced precariously in the crook of his elbow, he clumsily shoves three different keys into three different locks, shaking his head bemusedly as he does so. It seems Fenris’s paranoia knows few bounds—not without good reason, of course. 

     Apparently the only limit to the elf’s paranoia begins and ends with the use of magic. In the wake of the windfall of the Deep Roads Expedition, Fenris’s cut of the spoils had the undesirable effect of elevating his status in Kirkwall from “nameless knife ear” to “wealthy, self-made elf”, thereby piquing the curiosity of every nobleman and his mother. Fenris had balked at his newfound high profile: “Better to be alive in anonymity than dead in notoriety, Hawke,” he had remarked, his lips quirking downward into the telltale frown that Hawke knew all too well.

     In an effort to mollify Fenris’s fears, Hawke had managed to coerce a begrudgingly reluctant Anders into offering to incorporate magically constructed wards into the mansion’s physical locks as an added layer of protection. Predictably, Fenris refused the offer with a scathing, “Not on your life, _mage_ ,” that conveyed about as much gratitude as a hungry high dragon spares at snack time. However, with Anders involved, it was difficult to discern if Fenris was objecting to the use of magic or simply to the identity of the mage. 

     _I’d warrant you’d find no quarrel with_ Bethany _weaving magical doohickeys and thingamajigs into these locks_ , Hawke muses, indulging in a wistful smile in his sister’s memory. With that, he hears the reassuring click of the final key in the final lock—and with a triumphant boot to the base of the door, he finally gains access to Fenris’s veritable fortress of solitude.

     “Oi, Fenris, you awake?” Hawke calls into the dim expanse of the foyer. Bleak winter sunlight struggles to penetrate the layer of grime coating the windows. The lack of light lends an undeniably spooky atmosphere to the place, what with the disapproving glares of the Tevinter-style statues of the Old Gods looming down from every niche.

     Regular comings and goings by Fenris, Hawke, and other visitors have forged a single footpath through the layer of dust and debris. The path begins at the door in the foyer and winds up the left-hand staircase in the main hall until it reaches the door to Fenris’s room, which presently stands ajar. The fire flickering on the hearth upstairs casts long, jagged shadows across the vaulted ceiling, but the mansion is otherwise bereft of signs of life, save for the industrious spiders busy spinning their gossamer webs in every nook and cranny.

     “Hey, Fenris! I brought breakfast!” Hawke calls again, his early-morning voice a husky tenor. “I woke up at the crack of dawn to get down to that Lowtown bakery you fancy before they sold out of apple pastries. I ran all the way there, only to have some batty old woman accuse me of cutting in the queue and swat me with her walking stick! The nerve of some people. I ended up treating _her_ to breakfast, too.”

     When naught but silence returns his greeting, Hawke tries a more direct tact. “Doesn’t that lovely little monologue even rate a ‘Good morning, Hawke’?”

     Silence. Again.

     “Tell you what, Fenris, I’ll even settle for a ‘hello’, provided it sounds more cheerful than broody.”

     As Hawke ascends the staircase, his leather boots crunch on a few shards of broken pottery. His pace slows as he takes care to step gingerly around the remnants of a shattered porcelain vase. At least they hadn’t neglected to dispose of the arrow-riddled corpses after initially reclaiming the mansion from those infernal shades.

     “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m serious this time,” Hawke continues, unsure if Fenris is even listening. “I’m going to get Varric and Isabela down here, and the four of us are going to go weekend warrior—weekend _rogue_ , rather—on this entire mansion, from floor to ceiling—wait, scratch that. I may have booked us an appointment with the Darktown sewers and an army of zombie corpses for this coming weekend, but next weekend is all yours, I swear. Sound good?”

     A short bark of a laugh from the direction of Fenris’s room answers this query, and the sound brings a silly grin to Hawke’s face. He can tell Fenris is preoccupied with something, either too tired or too distracted to be able to stifle his laughter completely.

     Hawke traipses across the relatively obstacle-free landing of the staircase, knocks on the open door, and pokes his head around the doorframe. “Greetings and salutations,” he says, flashing a jaunty mock salute.

     Fenris looks up from where he is stoking the fire, feeding the blaze with another round of dry kindling. With a fond smile, he replies, “Good morning, Hawke.”


End file.
